


The Price We Pay

by monday7112



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2015-07-11
Packaged: 2018-04-06 06:20:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4211331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monday7112/pseuds/monday7112
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A year after Sam’s departure for Stanford, a hunt gone south sends Dean flying through the mountains to Sam’s doorstep for one last chance at reconciliation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Reunion

**Author's Note:**

> This fic springs from the “canon error” in 1x01 “Pilot”, when Dean says he’s left Sam alone for 2 years, even though Sam’s been at Stanford for just over 3. I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> Thanks to: 
> 
> \--callie_828, who was alternately my cheerleader, encouraging me onward when I was frustrated and ready to give up on the fic entirely, and my own personal Simon Cowell, telling me my writing was technically perfect but lacked heart, and challenging me to do better. This fic quite literally would not exist without her.
> 
> \--simplymarvie, who stepped in when Callie left for France and was unavailable in the final stretch, in spite of the fact that this fic is gen. She came at this fic with fresh eyes and offered some great suggestions to make it even better.
> 
> \--my first reader, t_vo0810 whose encouraging words got me re-energized about the fic and gave me the enthusiasm I needed to make the final push to finish it.
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you, thank you, thank you
> 
> Warnings: Mentions of suicide. And angst. Lots and lots of angst. However, this is a completely GEN fic, safe for all shippers and non-shippers.

Sam took one final glance at the English lit paper he had been working on for the last four hours before saving it and closing the computer, then standing up to stretch. It was time to head to the cafeteria for dinner. His mind quickly went through his mental to-do list for the remainder of the evening and the next day as he looked around for his wallet. He had just spotted it laying on his nightstand when the phone on his desk vibrated. He automatically reached for it and glanced at the caller id, his knuckles turning white as he read the name: “Dean Winchester”. He stared at the phone for another long moment before tossing it back on his desk. Falling into the nearest chair, he ran his hands through his hair, all thoughts of the next day’s activities now completely pushed out of his head in lieu of the obvious question.

What the hell did Dean want?

It had been over a year since Sam had announced his intention to attend Stanford. Over a year since the screaming match with his father, the ultimatum, the slammed door. Over a year since Dean had stood by, watching the fight silently. Not defending him. Not saying a word. Not even coming after him after the fight was over to tell him that no matter what their father said, Sam was still his little brother and he didn’t want him out of his life.

Sam sighed again and stood up, beginning to pace.

He had been so excited when the letter informing him of his full-ride scholarship had arrived; so hopeful that at long last his father would finally see how important college was to Sam, how much it meant to be able to get away, experience a “normal” life and attempt to carve his own path in the world. The disappointment when the exact opposite had occurred was crushing, but Sam hadn't been surprised. It was a scene that had played out too many times to count throughout his childhood: the time Sam wanted to play soccer instead of take archery lessons, the time Sam asked to stay with Bobby so he could finish out the term at the nearby school and compete at the state debate tournament, every time he wanted to do anything other than hunt. So in spite of his optimism, Sam had been ready for his father’s reaction—the confrontation, the yelling, the anger, the ultimatum.

Yet nothing, literally nothing, could have prepared him for Dean’s reaction to the news. In spite of the fact that Dean teased him constantly about his academic pursuits, his desire to do something other than join the family business when he grew up, Sam had always known Dean was proud of him; had always known that no matter what, he had his older brother's support. So after the fight with his father ended, Sam had walked to the nearest phone booth, flipped through the yellow pages and took a taxi to the first hotel listed. He checked in under the pseudonym he and Dean had agreed on and waited for the phone to ring or the knock on the door.

It never came. Sam waited the entire night and the next day, thinking maybe it had taken Dean that long to get away from their father. Or maybe that Dean was waiting to get in touch with him until after he'd calmed their father down. The day after that, he finally realized the phone call wouldn’t be coming, and neither would Dean. There would be no pep talk. No “lay low while I smooth things over, Sammy…it’ll be okay. I’ll take care of it.” Dean’s complete silence could only mean he was taking their father’s side and he wanted Sam out of his life, too.

The next week was freshman orientation, so Sam had hitchhiked to Stanford. He’d been the only kid checking in to the dorms with just a duffle bag full of knives and rock salt, and the clothes on his back.

The phone on his desk vibrated again, snapping Sam out of his reverie. He brushed at the tears that had formed in the corner of his eyes then strode over to the desk and snatched the phone up, glancing again at the caller ID: “Dean Winchester”. He switched the phone off and walked out of the room, the door slamming shut behind him. Whatever it was that Dean wanted to say to him, he didn’t want to hear it. It was about a year too late.

* * *  
Sam wasn’t sure how long he had been sleeping when the sound of loud voices and a thump or two that sounded suspiciously like someone being thrown against the wall outside of his dorm room woke him up. He rubbed his eyes and glanced at the clock, then swung his legs over the side of his bed and stood up. Quickly pulling on a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie, he walked over to the door and flicked open the lock. His hand froze on the doorknob as a voice he hadn’t heard in over a year—but which was more familiar to him than any other in his life—rose above the crowd. “SAMMY???” Another loud thud, and then “I TOLD YOU I’M HERE TO SEE MY BROTHER NOW LET ME GO! SAMMY!”

Sam sighed and yanked open the doorknob, certain he had to be hearing things. There was no way his brother had come all the way to California. Not after this long. And yet, when the door opened, it revealed Dean struggling against two security guards who, despite having Dean’s hands pinned behind his back, were just barely holding on to the elder Winchester brother. “LET ME SEE MY BRO…Sammy?” Dean stopped struggling and the guards almost lost their balance at the sudden slackening of resistance. Something that almost looked like relief flickered in his eyes before his face relaxed into a grin. “Hey l’il brother.”

Sam just stared at Dean, unaware of the doors popping open all along the hall, unaware of his RA peeking out to find out what was going on, unaware of everyone and everything but the sight of his brother somehow, unbelievably, standing in front of him. “Dean?” Sam gasped. The two men stared at each other for a moment longer before Sam finally broke the silence. “What in the hell are you doing here?”

One of the security guards looked at Sam, then back to Dean, then back to Sam again. “This your brother?” he asked. Sam nodded.

Dean glowered smugly at the guards and jerked his arms away. “See?” he grumbled. “If you’d have just listened to me in the first place, there wouldn’t be a hole in the wall the shape of your partner there.” He took an uneven step toward Sam, arms held out as though he were expecting a hug. “Aren’t you happy to see me?”

For the first time, Sam became aware of the curious stares of the crowd which had gathered around them. He gritted his teeth, then opened the door to his dorm. “Come on in,” he said, grabbing Dean’s arm and yanking him inside. Sam slammed the door against the prying gazes of the onlookers and locked it. He waited for a moment until he heard the guards dispersing the crowd before he turned to face his brother.

“Sammy,” Dean said, once again stretching out his arms as though he wanted Sam to hug him. “I’ve missed you, you know.”

Sam ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “You’re drunk, aren’t you.” It was a statement, not a question.

Dean looked for a moment as though he were going to object, but couldn’t quite hide the smile. “Only a little,” he said, holding up his thumb and forefinger. “But that’s not why I’m here.”

“That’s an excellent point,” Sam said, the shock starting to wear off as the anger began to creep in. “Why are you here? I’m pretty sure it’s not for a job. I might be a little rusty, but I think I’d know if there were a haunting on campus…”

Dean cocked his head and shrugged. “I tried calling,” he said. “You didn’t answer. What other choice did I have?”

“That’s not the…what other…?” Sam balled his hand into a fist and turned to face the door, then took a deep breath before once again turning to face Dean. “An entire year I don’t hear from you, and suddenly you call, out of the blue. What am I supposed to do?”

Dean plopped down into Sam’s recliner and ran his hands along the arms. “What are you supposed to do? I dunno…maybe try picking up the phone?” he said, bouncing up and down a little and then kicking the footrest up before returning his gaze to his brother. “This is comfy.”

“NOT THE POINT DEAN!” Sam snapped, his patience finally wearing off. “You know damn well—” He paused and took a deep breath, then crossed his arms. “You can’t stay here.”

Dean spread his arms apart. “Where else am I gonna stay, huh? I’m in town. Of course I’m going to come visit my little brother.” Sam opened his mouth to once again speak but before he could formulate a response, Dean stood up and walked over to Sam, setting both hands on his brother’s shoulders. “Sam…Sammy…I’m tired,” he giggled. “And drunk. S’been a long day for me. There will be plenty of time in the morning for us to yell at each other, huh?”

Sam snapped his mouth shut and glared at Dean. Dean grinned. “Good. Now we have that settled, do you have a blanket or something? It’s cold in here…” He looked around, grabbed a blanket off of Sam’s bed and returned to the recliner. “Good night, little brother,” he said with a grin. “S’good to see you again.”

Before Sam could protest, Dean was snoring softly. Sam stared at his brother’s sleeping form for a few more minutes and then grabbed his laptop and began packing it into his computer bag so he could head to the library. It was obvious that he would not be getting any more sleep that night. He might as well finish the damn English lit paper.

* * *

Dean awoke with a start, his hand automatically reaching under his pillow for the gun he kept there. Only there was no pillow. In fact, it slowly dawned on his hungover mind that he was sitting upright. He tried to move and felt his neck and back scream in protest.

Okay. Where the hell was he? And what had happened last night? He opened his eyes, shutting them again as the light caused the dull throb in his head to turn into a sharp stabbing pain.

He groaned and shifted his weight, doing his best to ignore the threat his stomach was making to evict last night's dinner. Rubbing his fingers across his eyes, he once again opened them, the pain in his head not so severe now that he was prepared for the onslaught of light.

All right, so he had established that he'd had too much to drink last night. Now, where had he ended up? He remembered the end of the hunt. Remembered calling Sam, panicked, terrified.

Remembered arriving at Stanford, making it all the way up the front steps of Sam's dorm before the doubt kicked in and he found he couldn't go any further.

Sam had walked away. Left him to go to college without so much as a good bye or a phone call to let him know he was okay. And he'd been doing just fine, too, the two times their father had stopped by campus to check.

Better than fine, actually. He was making friends. Even had a girlfriend. And he was doing well in classes, too, as John had discovered when he'd broken into the records office and checked Sam's grades. Sam was doing better without him than he'd ever done under Dean's care, making it very hard for Dean to escape the fact that his little brother did not need him. Not in the way Dean needed him. Not at all, really.

And so, Dean had turned and walked back down those steps, unable to bring himself to walk the last 20 feet inside and ask someone which room was Sam's.

Dean sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. After that, he remembered going to a bar near campus, intent on having a drink, finding a willing woman and forgetting about the end of the hunt. And Sam. As Sam had so obviously forgotten him. He drew another deep breath. That was more or less where his memory of the events of the previous night ended.

He looked around the room and grinned. Well, obviously he had found the girl, anyway, as he was very definitely in a dorm room. Frowning, he glanced down and realized he was fully clothed and sitting in a recliner. On the other hand, maybe he hadn't been as successful as he'd originally thought. He had woken up hungover in unknown locations in the past, but he was always naked in someone's bed. Never still wearing the previous day’s clothing and sleeping chastely on the chair. Feeling disconcerted by the unfamiliar circumstances, he braced himself against the wave of nausea that was threatening and attempted to stand up.

The room started to spin and his head screamed in protest so he sat back down. He squeezed his eyes shut again and slowly stood up, this time bracing one hand against the nearby desk to steady himself. He waited a few moments, letting his stomach settle into a manageable level of protest and the pain in his head return to a dull throb before beginning to explore the room.

His gaze landed first on the bed to his right. A pillow, dark blue sheets and a gray bedcover were the only decoration on the bed.

"Least girly bed I've ever seen," he mumbled, turning back to the desk to examine the contents there. No pictures. He had never known a woman without pictures hanging all over the place. He'd asked one of them once why women liked photos so much. She had smiled. "Memories," was her answer. "All of them remind me of somewhere or someone that made me smile."

Clearly this girl did not agree. He frowned. Or had no memories she wanted reminding of. He shifted through the papers on the desk. A flyer advertising a floor movie and pizza night, a syllabus for English lit and a paper with some scribbled writing on it.

"Dean--At library. Sam"

Dean stared at the note, trying to convince himself that he had gone home with a woman named Sam last night.

But there was simply no escaping it. That was Sam's writing. He had gone to Sam's room after the bar.

Which would, after all, explain why he hadn't woken up naked next to a hot chick. Goddamn it.

Cursing himself and his stupidity, Dean’s mind quickly contemplated the two alternatives he had before him: stay and face Sam, or run. On the one hand, he had clearly slept in Sam’s dorm last night, which meant Sam hadn’t thrown him out. So maybe there was a chance his brother wanted to reconcile. As soon as the thought occurred to him, Dean dismissed it. Sam didn’t want him. Or need him. Still, he could stay. Try to persuade Sam that family was important. That they needed each other, even if he couldn’t see it right now. Or leave. Take off for the next hunt, wherever that would lead him, and pretend that he hadn’t ever been dumb enough to get drunk and come knocking at his little brother’s door in the first place.

Before he had made a decision on which course of action to pursue, the doorknob began to turn, announcing Sam’s return. He cursed again and rearranged his face into what he intended to be a careless grin, as though he hadn’t just been contemplating running away. “Sammy,” he said as Sam stepped into the room. Maybe he'd get lucky and they had hashed this all out last night already. “Where you been all morning?”

Sam stared at Dean a moment, an expression Dean didn’t recognize on his face, and opened the closet door. “At the library, working on a paper for class,” he said. “You know, school. That’s sorta what I’m here for. Can’t put it on hold just because my brother decided to show up drunk in the middle of the night.”

Dean tensed. Judging from the careful lack of emotion in his brother’s voice, all had not been forgiven last night. He wished he could remember any of what had happened so he had some idea of Sam’s frame of mind. “Oh yeah? What class?” he asked, not sure what else to say. Somehow “I’ve missed you, Sammy. You’re my little brother. I love you and I can’t stand the thought of losing you” seemed inappropriate.

“English Lit,” Sam said, shutting the closet door and turning to face Dean.

Dean took a step backward and noticed for the first time that he had to look up to see Sam’s face. “When did you get taller than me?” he demanded. There was nothing about this entire confrontation that felt comfortable, right down to the fact that Sam was now, literally, looking down on him.

“At some point during the last year, I would imagine,” Sam said, gritting his teeth and glowering at Dean.

From his eyes to the set of his jaw to the hunched up shoulders and hands slammed in his pockets, Sam’s body was screaming anger. Not such a great start to their first sober conversation in a year. Dean searched his mind for a way to diffuse the situation but unable to come up with anything, he sighed. “Do we have to do this?” he asked, still hopeful that there would be a way to skip the entire awkward conversation and just pretend the last year hadn’t happened; go back to the way things had been before with no questions asked.

Sam blinked. “Do we…Do we HAVE to do this? Excuse me—who was it that showed up at my door drunk at 2 am? No, we didn’t HAVE to do this. We could have gone on not speaking and then you wouldn’t have had to deal with it. I was just fine with that. But you had to push the issue. And, by the way, what did you think was going to happen? Did you think that I was going to be overjoyed to see you, give you a huge hug and take you out for a beer?”

Dean glowered at Sam, the anger and pain that had been building as the days stretched into weeks then months, then an entire year while he waited for some word from Sam, some manner of apology for walking out on him, SOMETHING to indicate that his brother was even still alive, threatening to erupt and boil over. He took a deep breath and unclenched his hands. “I was just hoping we could put all this behind us, Sammy,” he said. “The whole ridiculous fight, you walking out on us…I don’t even want an apology—”

“WHY WOULD I OWE YOU AN APOLOGY?” Sam bellowed, turning and stalking over to the door, shoulders heaving with suppressed rage. He turned again and faced Dean, his eyes flashing. “YOU stood there and let Dad kick me out. YOU didn’t come find me after I left. YOU KNEW WHERE I WAS FOR AN ENTIRE YEAR and did nothing. What, exactly, do I have to apologize for here?”

Dean’s grasp on his temper, already tenuous, snapped at Sam’s outburst. “You’re joking right? Sam, YOU walked out on us!”

“No, Dean. I walked out on Dad. Not you. And, point of fact, I didn’t walk out. He threw me out and you didn’t stop him, remember?”

Dean opened his mouth to retort but snapped it shut again as he balled his fist up and tried to resist the overwhelming urge to punch his brother for being so damn stupid. He turned and walked over to the window, staring outside for a moment at the people walking across the campus spread out below them. “What was I supposed to do?” he said at last, turning. “You know what Dad’s like. I had to just let it play out.”

Sam shook his head. “No. NO. You did not have to let it play out. You could have said something to him. To me. Let me know that you thought he was out of line. That you didn’t want me gone. You could have done anything besides stand there and watch me walk out.”

Dean strode across the room to where Sam was standing, his temper flaring again. “You didn’t have to leave. That was YOUR choice to make,” he retorted, jabbing his finger into Sam’s chest.

Sam pushed Dean’s hand away and slammed his fist down on the desk. “I didn’t leave, Dean,” he shouted, his voice shaking.

Dean shook his head and paced back across the room before turning again to face his brother. “I watched you walk out that door without so much as a single word to me on your way gone.”

Sam heaved a sigh and Dean saw the anger leave his brother as resignation took over. When he spoke again, Dean had to strain to hear him. “I went to the first motel in the phone book—just like always. You never came.”

Dean gaped at him, disbelief etched in every inch of his frame. The thought of his brother alone in that hotel room waiting for him, confident he would come; the knowledge that he had let Sam down, betrayed his faith in their relationship tearing at his heart. He had been so sure that when Sam left he was leaving them both behind and not looking back. He dropped into the recliner, rubbing his fists against his hair, trying to find some excuse, but failing. He looked back up at Sam, his expression pleading. “You never called.”

The two brothers stared at each other for another long moment. In the next instant, Dean was on his feet as Sam closed the gap between the two of them and his brother’s arms were wrapped around him. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Dean, I…”

“Shh,” Dean whispered, fighting back the lump he felt swelling at the back of his throat. “I know, Sammy. Me too.”

* * *

Upon reaching the end of his explanation for his 2am arrival at Stanford, Dean declared it dinner time and left on a quest for food. Sam sat alone in the hotel room his brother had rented for the duration of his stay in Palo Alto, his mind still reeling from the shock of Dean’s admission that his most recent hunt had almost turned deadly. That his father and brother were in danger every time they left the particular hotel room they were calling home for the moment had been a fact of life for Sam since his brother had told him the truth about his father’s job the Christmas when he was 9-years-old. A superhero, Dean had called him then. Though even at that tender age, Sam had thought it would be more heroic for his father to stay home and take care of the two of them than to go out playing some sort of supernatural cop.

The job, as far as Sam was concerned, had never been about saving people. It had always, from the day they left Kansas behind for a life on the road, been about revenge. His father had the single-minded focus of avenging their mother’s death. Anything else, including the raising of his children, was secondary. Dean, of course, didn’t see it that way. Their father was, and probably always would be, a hero in his brother’s eyes.

Sam’s feelings about his father were half the reason that he had wanted to go to Stanford in the first place. To get away. From his father. From the toxic search for revenge that colored every last aspect of their lives. And from the constant, never-ending fear that one day, his brother would come home without their father. Or worse, almost unbearable to even think about, that his father would come home alone. Without Dean.

It was the last that he had spent almost every moment of his early days at Stanford trying to forget. And he had been reasonably successful at it, too, managing to control it until it was just a fleeting moment of panic in the morning before he was completely awake; gone before his eyes fully opened. But now it was back, almost overwhelming in its intensity as the reality he had been denying in his quest for a normal life struck him. Whether he was with them or not, whether he was aware of their activities or not, his father and brother were still hunting. Still putting themselves in the path of danger every single day, in the name—if not the spirit—of helping people.

And with the final wall of denial torn down, Sam had no choice but to allow himself the awful realization that while he had been trying to forget his family’s very existence for the last year, his father or his brother or both could have been killed; the realization that yesterday, as he had been focusing on finding the perfect thesis statement for his paper—a task that had seemed to be of such primary importance at the time—his brother had been trying to escape from a creature that would have killed him and probably not left behind enough remains to identify the body.

The trouble was in figuring out what to do with that realization. He couldn’t go back to hunting, of that much he was certain. To be a hunter, you either had to be motivated by revenge, like his father, or by a genuine belief that you were helping people, like Dean. Sam had neither of those motivations. All that he wanted was a simple, uncomplicated life with a wife, 2.3 kids, a house and maybe a couple of dogs. It was all that he had ever dreamed about and he couldn’t let it go out of fear.

He refused to live like that. He refused to accept that he had to live like that.

But where did that leave him, aside from laying awake every night worrying about his family? He felt a bit like Spock, a child of two worlds: the normal, safe, white-picket fence life that his mother had tried to provide him with and the supernatural, dangerous, vagabond life in which he’d been raised by his father and which his brother still lived. How did he reconcile the two vastly different worlds?

Sam was no closer to a solution for his dilemma when Dean returned with dinner than he had been when Dean had left. And come to that, he still had no idea what had spooked his brother enough to cause him to show up at his door after more than a year of silence, thereby turning Sam’s carefully cultivated feeling of safety and normalcy completely on its ear, either.

Dean smiled at Sam. “Brought sandwiches,” he said, holding up the bag. “Thought you might like some pie, too.” His grin disappeared as his eyes met Sam’s and he saw the turmoil there. “Sammy? Something wrong? I thought we already had our chick-flick moment earlier…I’ve met my quota for the year…Sammy?” Dean repeated, snapping his fingers in front of Sam's face. “You there?”

Sam shook his head. He needed to know why Dean had come. Maybe it would help him make sense of the internal battle his mind was waging with itself, give him some idea of what he was supposed to do, how he was supposed to live his life. Drawing in a deep breath, he leveled a stare at his brother. “Dean, tell me why you’re really here. I need to know exactly what happened on that hunt. I know you. You didn’t come back here after a year of thinking I’d turned my back on you just because of one close call.”

Dean set down the sandwiches and held out his arms. His expression was a little too careless. Sam saw right through it. “Of course I did, Sam. What else do you want me to say? I missed you, okay? Is that what you need to hear? Your big brother missed having you around. I practically raised you for God’s sake. Isn’t that reason enough?" Dean picked up a sandwich and held it out to Sam. "Can we eat now?”

“No,” Sam refused. “No. I’m not hungry.”

Dean shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he said, unwrapping the sandwich. “I'm starving.”

Sam debated whether to let the subject go for the moment and come back to it later, or push the issue now. He watched his brother for a moment before making up his mind. He stood, straightening up to his full height and leveling a stare at Dean. He was not going to let him brush the discussion aside so easily. Not this time. “Dean,” he stated in what he hoped was an unequivocal tone of voice, “I need to know the truth. Now. Or this time I really will walk out and not look back.”

* * *

Dean contemplated his sandwich, refusing to make eye contact with Sam. There were very few things he would rather do less than what his brother was asking him to do. But even as he thought of ways to deflect the question without further raising his brother’s ire, he knew he couldn’t refuse. This was Sam. He had always been willing to do anything for him, and while a year of time and distance had changed a lot of things, it hadn’t changed that.

“All right,” he said at last, setting down the sandwich. “You’re right. There’s more to it than just the close call.”

Sam exhaled—Dean wasn’t sure if it was in relief or surprise—and nodded, then sat down on the bed across from him. “Yeah, okay. I didn’t think so.” He looked down at his hands and then back up at Dean, his expression unreadable. “So then…why?”

Dean drew a deep breath. There was nothing quite like being forced to relive one of the worst moments of your life only a day removed from the event. He thought back on all the people that they had interviewed after their loved ones had been lost or severely injured and felt a twinge of guilt. He now knew what he had been asking them to do.

He was entirely too sober for this.

“We were working down in Phoenix when Dad got a call from someone he had done a job for a few years back, a deputy sheriff in a small town just outside of Reno. Place called Verdi. In the last few months, they’d had 4 suicides.”

“Notes?” Sam queried.

“All four,” Dean replied.

“What did the notes say?”

“They all had something to do with not being able to live after the death of a loved one.”

Sam nodded. “Sounds tragic,” he agreed, “but why did they think this might be a job for Dad?”

“Because none of the supposedly dead loved ones had actually died,” Dean explained. “These people were offing themselves in grief over deaths that hadn’t occurred.”

Sam pulled a face. “Well that’s not normal.”

For a brief moment, Dean forgot the ending of the story he was telling and allowed himself to revel in being back in a hotel room with Sam, rehashing a hunt. Just like they had their entire lives. Then the memories of his last afternoon in Nevada hit again, hard, fast, vivid, reminding Dean that this was not just another hotel room, not just another war story. “That’s what Dad and I figured, too. So he sent me up to check it out while he finished the job in Phoenix. You know, have a look around, see if it was our kind of problem.”

Sam’s face registered surprise. “Dad sent you by yourself?”

Dean couldn’t control the rush of anger that accompanied Sam’s question. He jerked his head up. “What choice did he have? Not like he could send you with me.”

Hurt, then regret flashed across Sam’s eyes. He again looked down at his hands. “I’m sorry” he said, his voice almost inaudible. “Dean…”

The anger was already gone, the guilt hitting before Sam even spoke. He hadn’t meant to lash out; hadn’t meant to hurt his brother with the residual anger he still felt, no doubt would continue to feel for some time before it dissipated completely. Even if what he had said was true, what good did it do to keep rehashing it over and over again? At some point, he and Sam both had to find a way to make peace with the fact that Sam was done hunting and Dean never would be. The partnership they had forged growing up in the trenches with their father was over. It really was that simple.

And besides, what did Sam have to feel sorry for, anyway? He had every right to make the choice he had made. Dean would be selfish to resent him his chance of living the life he dreamed of having. He wasn’t angry about that at all. He was proud of Sam. Proud of him for being strong enough to stand up to their father, for making his own choices, for doing what he felt was right for him. Proud, and maybe even a little envious. Dean did not consider himself a weak man, but he doubted he would ever have the strength to turn his back on hunting. He needed it too much: the excitement of the hunt, the thrill of the kill, the knowledge that he was saving lives. It made him feel alive.

Hell, he’d been doing it almost his whole life, hadn’t he? Sam was the very first, when at age four, he had carried him out of their burning home. He couldn’t remember ever doing anything else. And the knowledge that at the end of the day maybe he was sparing someone the pain that his family had known was the only thing—aside from taking care of Sam, keeping him safe—that had ever given him any sense of purpose in his life.

And Sam, well…he had a different purpose. That was hardly anything to apologize for.

Not that he could say any of this to Sam, even if he wanted to. He never had been good at the whole talking about emotions thing that Sam thrived on. So instead, he gave an exaggerated sigh and dealt with the situation as he always had, with a little bit of humor.

“I’d forgotten that talking to you was like talking to a chick,” he said, slapping Sam on the leg. “There’s nothing to be sorry for, all right? I don’t want to hear it again. You’re ruining a perfectly good hunting story with all this emo crap.”

Sam’s eyes met Dean’s and a brief grin flashed across his face. “Yeah, fine. No more apologies, then. So, uh…what did you find when you got to Verdi?”

Dean shrugged. “At first, not much,” he answered. “The notes were apparently real, at least according to the forensic analysis. The victims hadn’t been exhibiting any erratic behavior prior to their deaths. The town itself had no local legends about ghosts or things that go bump in the night. I mean…I couldn’t find anything whatsoever that could explain why four people up and decided to pick up a gun and shoot themselves over the imaginary loss of a loved one.”

“So did you talk to the families?”

Dean looked at Sam as though he’d lost his mind. “Come on, Sam! I do know how to do a job without you.”

Sam laughed. “Yeah, well, apparently not. I mean, I leave you alone for a year and the next thing I hear, you’ve let yourself get trapped.”

Dean balled up a sandwich wrapper and chucked it at Sam’s head. Sam ducked and the paper went soaring past, landing on the bed. “Watch yourself,” Dean said. “You may be taller than me now, but I can still kick your ass.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Please. You couldn’t even take me when you had 2 inches and 10 pounds on me.”

“You’re forgetting that the whole time you’ve been away at college getting fat on cafeteria food and letting your reflexes dull, I’ve been hunting. I’m sharper than you, Sam. I could take you down without even trying.”

For a moment, the brothers locked eyes and in the next second Sam was coming at him. Having anticipated the opening move, Dean caught his arm and spun him around, pinning it behind his back, his other arm wrapped around Sam’s neck. Using his leg, he tried to sweep under his brother’s foot and knock him to the ground. What Dean hadn’t been anticipating, however, was that the height difference had changed their centers of gravity and instead of falling, Sam only stumbled before recovering his balance. Using his free arm and the advantage of Dean’s momentary surprise that his usual move hadn’t gone as, well, usual, Sam twisted his arm free, then grabbed Dean and shoved him facedown on the bed, knee pressing into Dean’s back.

“This is what you call sharp?” Sam asked with what was, Dean was sure even though he couldn’t see it, a smug smile. What Sam had forgotten to do, however, was to pin Dean’s arms when he had pinned him on the bed. With one smooth motion, Dean reached out, grabbed Sam, and flipped him onto the bed.

“As a knife,” Dean said with a smirk before releasing Sam and returning to the chair in which he had been sitting before his brother had decided to launch himself across the room. “Do you want to hear the rest of the hunt or don’t you?”

Sam growled and then picked himself up off the bed. “Yeah, fine,” he said looking for all the world as dejected as he had every single time he thought he could finally best his brother in a fight, only to find himself face down in the dirt. During Sam’s senior year of high school, however, he’d had a growth spurt and Dean no longer had the size advantage he’d enjoyed for most of Sam’s life. The playing field had been leveled and it was anyone’s guess who was going to come out on top in a particular match. It had been awhile since Dean had so easily bested Sam but instead of enjoying it, he found it only heightened the fears that had fueled his flight across the mountains in the first place.

Dean pushed the thought out of his head and forced his mind back to the hunt itself. “I talked to the families. They didn’t know anything. EMF meter readings were high, though so I gave Dad a call and told him this was definitely our type of job. He said he had a few loose ends to tie up in Phoenix and then he’d head up. I spent the next few days poking around while I waited for Dad to show up. Then a 911 call came across the scanner, a woman had walked in on her fiancé with a gun in his hand. Before she could stop him, he pulled the trigger. I figured another suicide—might be connected to the case. So, I headed over to her place to check it out.”

“And what’d you find?” Sam asked.

“Her fiancé,” Dean said. “A friend of his who worked at the hospital had called him to tell him an ambulance had been called out to his house. He headed home to find out what was going on.”

Sam gave a half-hearted laugh. “Imagine his surprise when he found out it was for him.”

“Yeah, tell me about it. That’d be just about as weird as getting an invitation for your own funeral. Anyway, she swore up, down and sideways that she had not been imagining what she saw and that her fiancé had been standing in front of her as surely as I was standing there talking to her right then.”

“What kind of creature can do something like that?” Sam asked, scratching his head. “What did Dad say?”

“Dad said he maybe had an idea, but he’d be up later that afternoon to check it out for certain. And to be careful. He didn’t much like the sound of it and didn’t want me doing anything by myself.”

“So you, of course, went back to the house to check it out,” Sam guessed. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but you should have listened to Dad, Dean.”

Dean tensed. For reasons he couldn’t quite comprehend, he was growing angry with both the way Sam was looking at him and the words his brother was saying. _Listen to Dad._ Sam was one to talk about that. How many times had Dean had to chase after Sam because he’d gone out and done the opposite of the order his father had issued? How many tight spots had he pulled Sam out of for exactly this reason? _How many times had Sam nearly gotten himself killed trying to prove that their father didn’t know best?_

He took a deep breath and leveled a glare at his brother. “No. Dad tells me to lie low until he gets somewhere, I expect he has a good reason for it and I listen to him. I headed to the library to work on ruling out the usual suspects. Not a vengeful spirit or cursed object. Not a demon. Not a shapeshifter.”

“Shapeshifter?” Sam asked, his eyes lighting up in interest at the word. “Didn’t Dad face one of those—”

“No. It was a thought-form, a…a psychic projection. Not too shabby, Sammy,” he added with an appreciative grin. “I made the same connection. The woman who had called 911—I found out when I talked to her that her fiancé had struggled with depression for years—before they had started dating, he had actually attempted suicide twice before. She told me it was like seeing her biggest fear play out before her eyes. This thing…it was feeding off of people’s worst fears, Sam, playing them out in 3D for the victim to watch. It made sense. The other suicides were in response to the same type of stressor. Finding a loved one dead, I mean…that’s pretty much anyone’s worst fear, isn’t it?”

Dean looked down at his hands and fiddled with the ring on his finger, waiting for Sam to say something, but Sam was silent. Dean coughed and drew a deep breath. “Anyway, I headed back to the hotel room, figuring I’d keep the scanner going in case it showed up again, and wait for Dad to get into town. The thing was waiting for me when I got there but I didn’t realize what it was. Rookie mistake,” he growled. “I knew there was something in town feeding off of people’s fears and I left myself unguarded so it could play right into mine.”

“So you saw Dad…” Sam swallowed, his expression unreadable. “You saw Dad dead?”

Dean jerked his head up, his eyes connecting with Sam’s as his mind rushed back to the previous day.

_“Sammy?” he gasped in surprise as the hotel door swung open to reveal his brother standing on the other side._

_Sam glanced around the room. “Still living in style, I see,” he said with a grin, pushing past Dean and throwing his bag down on the bed._

_“What the hell are you doing here? I’m working…”_

_“I know,” Sam said, falling down onto the nearest bed. “Damn, these things haven’t gotten anymore comfortable in the last year, have they? You’d think just once Dad would let you stay at a Hilton.”_

_Dean stared at Sam, trying to get his mind around the fact that after a long year of silence and rejection, his brother was standing in front of him acting like no time at all had passed. “Yeah,” he agreed. “That would be nice, I’m sure. But that doesn’t explain why you’re here.”_

_Sam sat up and grinned at Dean. “On break from class,” he said. “Dad called. Said he was worried about you, but wouldn’t be able to get up here for a few more days. Asked me to come help you out if I could make it.”_

_Dean fell into the nearest chair, running his hands through his hair as his mind attempted to wrap around what his brother was saying. “Dad…called…asked…wait. Sam. You and Dad, you aren’t—”_

_Sam waved his hand dismissively. “Dad was on campus last summer and came to see me. We’re uh…we’re working on it. I doubt he’ll ever understand why I want to give up hunting for college, but he’s not angry about it anymore like—”_

“Dean!” Sam’s voice snapped Dean’s mind back to the present. “Is that what you saw?”

Dean shook his head. “You honestly think Dad dying is my biggest fear?” he asked at long last.

Sam shifted. “Isn’t it?” he asked.

“No, Sam,” he whispered.


	2. Chapter 2: The Estrangement

_“How long?” he demanded. “How long have you been back in touch with Dad?”_

_Sam shrugged. “Few months,” he said. “I’m sorry I didn’t call, Dean. I meant to. I just…I didn’t really know what to say…”_

_Dean stood up and paced over to the window. His brother had reconciled with his father, a fact that brought him no small amount of joy. But that joy was tempered with the knowledge that Sam hadn’t bothered to get in touch with him to try to set their own rift straight. Still, a larger part of him recognized that now wasn’t exactly the time or the place to deal with it, either. Not when he was in the middle of a hunt and for the first time in a year his brother was with him. “Hey, don’t worry about it,” he said, turning around with a warm smile. “You’re here now, right?”_

_Sam nodded. “Right. So what have you got?”_

_Dean turned around and walked over to the table. “Near as I can tell,” he said, “we’ve got a thought-form going around bringing people’s fears to life and inciting them to suicide.”_

_“A thought-form” Sam asked. “Like the one Dad faced…”_

_“Exactly,” Dean agreed. “Dad wanted me to sit tight and wait for him, but I suppose since you’re here now, we can head over to the latest victim’s house. See if there are any clues on how to find this thing before it strikes again.”_

_* * *_

_When the two brothers arrived at the house, they headed around to the back. Sam expertly worked the lock on the window and opened it then slid through first, Dean following. Once inside, Dean led the way toward the living room at the front of the house. “All right,” he said, walking into the room and spinning around. “This is where it was last.”_

_Sam walked around the room, EMF meter in hand, scanning. He paused at the door to the dining room as the meter lit up. “Looks like this was the spot,” he said, bending down and rubbing his hand along the carpet, as though that would offer any clues. Whatever the carpet had witnessed, however, it was keeping to itself. There was no trace residue or any other indication aside from the EMF that anything unusual had occurred in the room._

_Sam slammed his hand down on the floor and then stood up. “Real question is why,” he said. “Why did it pick her? Or any of them…have you found any connection between victims?”_

_Dean shook his head. “Nothing,” he said. “As far as I can tell, this thing is totally random.”_

_“Well that’s fun,” Sam said with an eyeroll. “We should be able to figure out its next move real easy, then.”_

_“Well, we know what it is now, at least,” Dean countered. “That’s further than I got the last 3 days.”_

_“I’m going to look around a bit, see if I can find anything.”_

_Dean glanced around the room then his gaze settled on Sam. “Yeah, okay. I suppose that makes sense. I’ll poke around in here,” he said. “And Sam?”_

_Sam was already heading through the door that led to the next room. “Yeah?” he asked, turning back toward Dean._

_“Be careful,” Dean said. It was his customary warning every time they split up; one he had issued since the first hunt on which Sam had joined his father and him. “This thing…”_

_Sam’s eyes met Dean’s for a long moment, then he nodded. “Feels good to be back,” he said._

_Dean ignored the lump that he felt rising at the back of his throat. “Are you my little brother or my baby sister?” he joked, giving Sam a shove. “Get in there and do your job. I might as well be here by myself for all the help you’ve been so far.”_

_Sam grinned. “Yeah, okay,” he agreed before disappearing through the door._

_After Sam’s lanky frame was no longer visible in the next room, Dean turned to examine the room in which he was standing, his mind once again focusing on the hunt. There had to be some connection, he knew, some pattern in the seemingly random way the thing was choosing its victims. Heaving a sigh, he walked over to the fireplace to look at the items on the mantle. Time to get to work._

_Dean was examining the contents of a bookshelf in the room when Sam’s voice yelling, “Dean!” pierced through the quiet of the home, followed by a loud crack and the sound of breaking glass. He jerked his head up, trying to quell the panic that rose, unbidden, at the sound of his brother yelling his name._

_“Sammy?” he shouted, dropping the book and reaching for his knife. He drew it out of its sheath and cautiously made his way into the next room. “Sam?”_

_The room in which he was standing was empty, a broken table—the shards of glass from the shattered top tipped with blood—and his brother’s gun the only evidence that Sam had ever been in the room to begin with. He picked up the gun, and then followed the trail of blood into the kitchen. Sam was lying on the floor near the back door, covered in blood._

_“Dean,” he croaked._

_“Shh…it’s okay, Sammy. I’m here,” Dean soothed, looking quickly around then running over to where Sam was lying when it looked like the room was clear. “Where is it? Where did it go?”_

_Sam didn’t answer. He was trying to pull himself up into a sitting position, but slumped down again. Dean set the knife and gun he was carrying beside him, then turned his attention back to Sam._

_“Don’t move, okay? You just stay right here,” he said, his hands running over Sam’s body checking for wounds, his fingers pausing as they ran across a gaping hole in Sam’s stomach. “You’re going to be okay, you hear me?” Dean looked around for a towel or something to use to stem the flow of blood but couldn’t find anything. Using his teeth, he ripped the sleeve off of his shirt and pressed that against Sam’s wound._

_“Dean, I…” Sam began, his voice trailing off as his eyes began to close._

_“Stay with me, Sammy. You hear me? Look at me! Open your eyes, keep looking at me,” he said, grabbing his brother’s face in his hands._

_Sam’s eyes fluttered open. “I love you, you know that, right?”_

_Dean nodded. “Shh, yeah. Sammy. Yeah, I know. Don’t talk right now.”_

_Sam nodded and closed his eyes again. He shuddered, and then the movement of his chest stopped. “No. Sam! Sam!” Dean screamed, as he checked for the pulse he already knew he wouldn’t find. “NO!!!!!!!” Dean buried his head in Sam’s neck, the tears falling freely now. He pressed the cloth harder against the wound, as if doing so would somehow bring his brother back. “Help!” he screamed, although it was already too late and there was no one there to do anything, even if it hadn’t been. “Please! Sammy…” His body wracked with sobs as he hugged his brother, gently rocking him back and forth, willing Sam to still be alive; willing the entire day to be a dream._

_He was uncertain how long he had been sitting there before he looked around, his gaze landing on the gun sitting just beside him. He picked it up and examined it, checking for bullets. It was fully loaded. Somewhere at the back of his mind, he was aware of a voice whispering. “Do it. You’re a failure. The only thing your father ever asked you to do was to protect your brother and you failed.”_

_Dean set the gun down. Pushed it away. But in trying to avoid looking at the gun, he ended up staring down at Sam._

_“How could you be so careless? You’re still alive and Sam is gone. You don’t deserve to live.”_

_No. He didn’t. But how could he do it—pick up the gun and just end it? It was bad enough that he’d cost his father one son. He was all John had left now._

_“And you honestly think he’ll want anything to do with you after this? You know Sam was his favorite. Oh, sure. You were a good little soldier, trained up right, fought by his side, but Sam…Sam was different. Sam was special.”_

_Dean swiped at the tears which hadn’t stopped flowing and cradled Sam’s face in his hand, then reached again for the gun. He set it against his temple, wondering if he’d be aware of the bullet as it tore through his brain._

_Lowering the gun, he contemplated removing the safety. Didn’t he at least owe his father an explanation, if nothing else?_

_But the voice in his head was relentless. “And your mother…what would she think? She died to protect Sam, and you just let him go off on his own. Where were you? You should have been with him.”_

_Dean looked down at his brother, his body covered in blood still held against his own. He pushed Sam away, as if by doing so he could erase the sight from his mind, stop what was happening. He stood up and stalked across the room._

_“What am I supposed to do?” he roared, turning to face Sam. “SAMMY! What am I supposed to do?”_

_Still the voice taunted him. “You should be ashamed of yourself. Sam is dead. It should be you.”_

_It should have been him. Sam shouldn’t have even been there. He was supposed to be at Stanford, studying. If Dean had just been a little stronger, a little better…their father would never have called Sam to come help him in the first place. It was all his fault._

_Dean’s eyes locked on the gun lying beside Sam’s body. “You’re nothing without him. He’s the only person who ever cared about you and look what you let happen. Just LOOK at him, Dean.”_

_“No,” Dean mumbled, staring down at the floor._

_“LOOK AT HIM!” the voice commanded._

_Dean lifted his head, his eyes travelling across the floor and coming to rest on his brother’s lifeless body. “You did that…YOU. It’s your fault. He’s gone now. How can you live without him?”_

_Dean’s head started to spin and he hunched down, trying to deny the truth, searching for a way that he could go on, make Sam’s death mean something. But there was no way. Sam was dead and he couldn’t continue living with the knowledge that he was the reason, even if he wanted to live without Sam in the world. And he didn’t. The realization hit him like a ton of bricks. He could not live, could not go on now that Sam was dead._

_He strode across the room and grabbed the gun, running one hand over it lightly until his finger came to rest on the trigger. He cocked it and opened his mouth, putting the barrel of the gun inside. He drew in a deep breath, then removed the gun and looked at it. His hands were shaking. He took another deep breath, attempting to steady them. The last thing that he needed was to miss because his hands were unsteady. He knew he would only be able to take one shot. He had to make it count. Dean raised the gun to his temple._

_“DEAN STOP!” Dean looked up in surprise, letting his hand drop to his side as John flew across the room and knocked the gun out of it._

_“Dad, I…” he mumbled, unable to make eye contact with his father. “I’m so sorry.”_

_“Sorry? What are you talking about? Get up. Jesus Christ, what do you think you’re…” John paused and looked around. “It’s here, isn’t it… I told you to be careful! Why didn’t you go back to the hotel room like I told you to? Dean! Are you listening to me? Whatever you thought you saw, it wasn’t real… I need you to focus on helping me find this thing…”_

Sam sat back, head spinning, unable to meet Dean’s eyes. “Me?” he said finally, already knowing the answer. Not really sure what to say from there.

Dean nodded, shifting his weight, looking like he’d rather be anywhere, and doing anything, other than sitting in that hotel room, telling Sam about the end of the hunt. 

“But, I mean…you knew I was here. You knew Dad and I—”

Dean looked agitated now. “I already told you. Rookie mistake. It told me that you and Dad had made up—”

“And you believed it?” Sam exclaimed. “Dean! What would make you think that I would ever work things out with Dad and then not tell you about it?”

Dean stared at his hands. “I don’t really want to talk about this anymore, Sam.”

Sam stood up and turned his back to stare at the wall behind him, running his hand through his hair, trying to make sense of everything his brother had just said. He was the reason Dean had nearly died. “No, NO!” Sam exclaimed at last, turning around. “We’re not done talking about this and I’m not going to sit down, shut up and pretend that you didn’t just tell me this. How could you be so careless?”

Dean strode over to where Sam was standing and spun him around. “Don’t lecture me on how to do the job, Sam. Dad said when he saw me with the gun to my head he wasn’t sure it was me or the damn thought-form at first, either.”

Sam glowered down at Dean, using his height to his advantage. “That doesn’t change the fact that you nearly died because of me. I mean, for Christ’s sake, the thing had a gun to your head.”

Dean stepped back, shoulders dropping as the anger that had flared so brightly a moment ago was replaced with defeat. “I had a gun to my head,” he mumbled. It was his turn to refuse to meet Sam’s eyes. 

“I—you _what_?”

“It was in my head, telling me to do it, but it was _me_ holding the gun, _me_ who decided to pull the trigger.”

Sam dropped back into the chair, unsure what to do next. There was only one thought that he could make heads or tails of and it was growing louder and louder by the second until at last it was screaming, impossible for him to ignore. 

Sam was Dean’s weakness. 

His brother had nearly died—had nearly _killed_ himself—because he thought that Sam had been killed. It terrified Sam how easily the thought-form had manipulated his brother, gotten inside his head and twisted his thoughts to convince Dean to eat the barrel of a gun. His brother was supposed to be infallible, the one who kept a clear head when Sam got jumpy, or allowed himself to get too caught up in the emotion of the hunt. And with one little white lie, this thing had nearly ended Dean’s life.

Sam sat back, his heart catching in his throat as his mind made the obvious connection. And if the thought form, or whatever the hell it was, had been able to do it so easily, then any creature that could mind read could do it, too. And there were a _lot_ of evil bastards with the power to read minds. Any one of them could use Sam to get to Dean. The thought form might have been the first Dean had run across that had tried to use Sam against him, but it sure as hell wouldn’t be the last. 

Sam’s mind was rushing along, now. As long as Dean cared about him, he wasn’t safe. His brother wasn’t safe. Wouldn’t ever be safe. Not as long as he continued hunting. Or, as long as…Sam refused to allow himself to follow that train of thought to its logical conclusion. No. Dean couldn’t continue hunting. He had to find _some_ way to convince him of it. Had to. 

Sam didn’t speak, trying to come up with the words that would get his brother to lay down his knives and rock salt for good. They didn’t come. Dean didn’t speak either. He looked almost relieved that Sam hadn’t continued to press the issue, content for the moment to let the silence stretch between them. 

Sam sighed, his mind still searching. When he spoke at last, his voice was quiet, reserved. 

“Why do you do it, Dean? I mean…I know why, but…after what happened on the last hunt, all the close calls before, even. Do you ever wonder if it’s worth it?”

Dean’s surprised gaze connected with Sam’s. “Wonder if it’s…Sammy, what the hell is this?” He shifted and some emotion Sam didn’t recognize flickered in his brother’s eyes. 

After a moment, it was obvious that Dean wasn’t going to say anything more than that. Sam sighed, frustrated. “I mean, don’t you ever want…I don’t know. Just to settle down in one place? Work a real job?”

“Hunting _is_ a real job,” Dean snapped. 

Sam took in the flash of anger, the ever so slight tightening of his fist that anyone else wouldn’t even notice but which to him were warning signs that flashed the words “tread carefully” in bright neon letters. If he pushed too hard, Dean would shut down, make a joke, change the subject and probably grab the nearest piece of food to shove in his mouth, the last an exclamation point on the non-verbal command “Back off Sam.”

He didn’t want to push Dean to that point. But this was a conversation they needed to have. He considered his next words carefully, giving a small laugh to reduce the tension in the air. “Yeah, okay, Dean but…I meant like a nine to five, Monday through Friday type of gig that doesn’t require you to chase all over the country after shadows.”

Now it was Dean’s turn to laugh. “What, you mean maybe go to school, like you? Get some normal job in the suburb and settle down with a wife and two kids?”

Sam shrugged, trying to ignore the glimmer of hope that Dean would want to do exactly that. “Yeah,” Sam agreed. “That’s what I mean.”

Dean snorted. “And just what the hell would I do with two kids? I barely knew what to do with you.”

The expression on his face clearly indicated he expected Sam to crack a joke, back off, say something that would imply he hadn’t meant it, but Sam found he couldn’t give his brother the expected response.

The laughter left Dean’s eyes and he stared at Sam in disbelief. “You’re serious?”

Sam nodded. “You could enroll in one of the community colleges in town, or, or one of the tech schools. You’ve always been great with cars. Why not become a mechanic?”

“Sounds awfully damn boring,” Dean scoffed. 

“Safe,” Sam mumbled in response, too quietly for Dean to hear.

“Come again?” Dean asked. He watched Sam carefully for a moment. “No offense, Sam but I mean, come on…that’s you. Not me. I can’t just give up hunting like that.”

“Not even after—”

“NO, Sam!” Dean shouted, standing up. He jammed his hands into his pockets and paced across the room, then rubbed his hands through his hair before turning again to face Sam. “Look, it was stupid, okay? I never shoulda let that thing get inside my head in the first place. But I’m not going to let one dumb mistake stop me from hunting.”

“Yeah,” Sam sighed. “Yeah. I know. Just…forget I said anything.”

So that was it, then. Dean wouldn’t—couldn’t—stop hunting and as long as he had a connection to Sam, he was at risk. If he wasn’t out there hunting with Dean, watching his back, then he was putting his brother’s life at risk. 

And as much as the thought of losing his relationship with his brother tore at his soul, especially so soon after they had reconciled, it was a hell of a lot easier pill to swallow than the thought of losing Dean completely, especially if he were the reason that Dean was killed. There was no way he could survive that. It would destroy him. 

The only choice he had was to completely cut ties with Dean. But it had to be Dean’s choice. Dean thought Sam had abandoned him once and that hadn’t been enough. He had still nearly died. Dean had to decide to leave this time. It was the only way.

But how in the hell did he go about convincing Dean to forget about him? To walk away and not look back? To eliminate Sam—and the danger he posed—from his life?

He was entirely too sober for this.

Sam grabbed his jacket and yanked open the hotel door.

“Hey!” Dean exclaimed, jumping up from where he’d been seated on the bed. “Where are you going?”

Sam gritted his teeth. “Class,” he lied. It was the only excuse he could think of that would allow him to leave without Dean wanting to come with him. He needed to clear his head. 

He hadn’t ever been any good at lying and now he had to tell a lie that he knew would rip his brother to shreds. Had to. So that Dean would walk away, grieve, heal and move on. Forget he ever had a little brother.

Sam swallowed hard, willing the tears back down. He could not cry. He needed to clear his heart; push all the emotion to the back so that it didn’t come bubbling up at the wrong time.

Closure, that was what Dean needed. So he could do his job without Sam on his mind, clouding his judgment. It was the only way to keep Dean safe, he repeated to himself over and over again. Maybe if he said it enough, it would start to hurt less.

He needed to make a plan so that he could do what had to be done and be convincing while he was doing it. 

* * *

Dean was laying on the bed, flipping through an automotive magazine when Sam returned. He glanced at the clock before his startled gaze came to rest on Sam. “I thought you said you had class,” he stated, throwing the magazine aside and sitting up. 

Sam glowered at Dean. “I lied.”

Confusion flickered across Dean’s eyes. “So where the hell have you been for the last half hour?”

“I went for a walk. Funny thing about finding out that your brother nearly killed himself on your behalf. It has a way of messing with you. I thought some fresh air might help me clear my head.”

Dean cocked his head. “Uh…okay. And did it?”

Sam nodded. “Yes. And do you know what I realized while I was out walking?”

Dean raised his eyebrows and opened his eyes wider. “No,” he responded.

“I realized that you’re still the same selfish asshole that you’ve always been.”

Dean stood up, flexing his fists at his side. “Come again?” 

“None of this is actually about me. All of it—from you showing up, drunk, in the middle of the night to why you want me back in your life again— _all of it is about you_.”

“Sam, wait,” Dean began, but Sam held up a hand. 

“No. YOU WAIT, Dean,” he stated. “I’m not done yet. You didn’t come here because you missed me. Or because you were genuinely concerned about my safety. You came here so that you could assuage your own guilt over letting me walk away because you have this stupid idea that you’re somehow responsible for me and if something happened to me it would be your fault. Well here’s a newsflash for you, _you’re not and it isn’t_.”

Sam realized with some shock that the anger he was expressing wasn't an act. It was flowing, fast and furious, to the surface. He was angry. He had already been through this once—been forced to make the decision to sever all ties with his family, mourn their loss, and attempt to move forward with his life. When Dean had shown up last night, he had allowed himself to hope that he and Dean would be able to reconcile, that maybe they could find a way to put the previous year behind them and have a relationship again. And yet here he was, being forced to make the same decision he'd had to make a year ago, once again losing his brother. The wound that he had worked so hard to close was being torn wide open and the pain was just as real, just as raw as he remembered it. Worse, actually. When he’d left for Stanford, he hadn’t really grasped the full consequences of his actions but this time he had no such naivety protecting him. This time, he knew exactly what it meant to be completely alone in the world with no family to rely on, no one to help him or support him or cheer him on when things got hard and he started to doubt himself. Fully understood how enveloping the loneliness could be when all of his classmates were talking about heading home for Spring Break and he had no home to return to…not that he’d ever had a home, anyway, but at least he’d had Dean. 

He swallowed the lump that was forming and focused again on the task at hand. There would be time to grieve later. “I’m not 12 years old anymore and I know damn well how to take care of myself. I don’t need you protecting me or taking care of me anymore.”

“What is this, Sam? I’m your older brother. Looking after you is my job.”

Sam shook his head. “No. That’s NOT your job. I manage just fine without you. You need to figure that out.” Sam paused for a moment, trying to collect his thoughts and make sure that he was choosing the words that would push Dean just far enough that he would decide to turn and walk away. “If ever you had any obligation to me, Dean, it ended when I chose to leave you and Dad and hunting and that whole messed up life behind me and go to Stanford.” 

Sam drew in a deep breath and leveled his gaze on Dean, staring at him intently. “I don’t need you. Not to look after me. Not to take care of me. Not for anything.”

Dean shook his head and held out his arms, his expression pleading. “Come on Sammy...you don’t mean that. Of course we need each other. We’re family.”

Sam found he could no longer meet his brother’s gaze. It was starting to hurt too much to see the pain and anguish reflected there and to know that he was the reason. He would never have chosen to hurt his brother like this. There was just no other alternative. He turned to face the wall, steeling himself against the wave of guilt that was threatening to overtake him. It had to be this way.

Sam turned again, his eyes meeting Dean’s, his expression intentionally icy, hard, cold. “I have no family, Dean. I made peace with that over a year ago when I made the decision to attend Stanford and cut ties with you and Dad.”

Dean’s eyes bore into Sam’s; trying to read what was hidden there. Sam kept his face blank. If he showed even the slightest hint that he didn’t mean what he was saying, Dean wouldn’t do what he needed to do. He wouldn’t walk out. Wouldn’t cut ties, and let go. And he had to. So he could live his life and Sam would no longer be a threat to him. 

“No,” Dean said, shaking his head. “You expected me to follow. You thought it was my choice to let you go…” His eyes pleaded with Sam, but Sam refused to relent. He lifted his chin and stared back at his brother, his expression unwavering. 

“Tell me,” Dean demanded, stalking across the room and stopping just inches from where Sam was standing. “Tell me that when you left last year, you still would have gone if you had known I wasn’t going to follow you. Tell me you would still have left for Stanford if you had known that when you walked out on Dad, you were leaving me behind, too. Because if you can do that, I will never darken your doorstep again. You have my word.”

Sam turned away from Dean, his mind reeling. Of all of the questions Dean could have asked at this moment—of all of the things he could have said—he was least prepared for this one. He had been ready to say anything to get Dean out the door. Ready to lie through his teeth if he had to; if it meant that his brother would make a clean break and get on with his life. What he hadn’t been expecting, had never prepared to do, was to destroy his brother with the truth. 

He had asked himself Dean’s exact same question so many times during the last year. Was it worth it? Had been getting away and pursuing “normal” been worth losing his relationship with his father? His relationship with his brother? If he could go back and do it all over, would he still make the same decision? And the answer he couldn’t escape from, no matter how many different ways he looked at it, was that he would. He would do it again, in a heartbeat and without hesitation. He wasn’t meant for that life. He didn’t fit in there. He was a liability in the field to both his brother and his father because his mind was never on the hunt. He hated the life he had left behind with a passion and while he missed his brother more than words can say—while he had wished that there was a way to have what he wanted without it having to be like it was—the sacrifice was worth it to him. It was the only way he could ever be happy.

He drew in a deep breath, turned around and stared his brother directly in the eyes, for the first time not worried about what they would reveal. “Yes,” he stated. “I still would have gone.”

That was all that needed to be said. Dean took a step backward and then another. He opened his mouth like he was going to say something, then closed it. After another long moment, he nodded. “Yeah, okay,” he said finally. He coughed. “You got it, then. I’m gone. I hope you have a great life, Sam. I mean that.”

Dean spun around, grabbed his jacket, and was out the door. Just like that, it was over. Sam watched it swing shut behind his brother before collapsing to the bed, finally allowing the tears he had been holding back to fall unchecked.

* * *  
Dean glanced at the piece of paper in his hand and double checked the numbers against the house in front of him. He was in the right place. All that was left to do was go inside, convince Sam to come help him, and head to Jericho. He laughed. If only it really were that easy. He put the car in park and sat back, taking a deep breath and then another, his mind—as it had been the entirety of the drive—replaying his last visit to Palo Alto.

Two years had passed since his last visit with Sam. Two years since he had told Dean that he no longer had a family, no longer wanted him around…told him to get out and not look back. Two years since Dean had slammed the hotel door behind him and sat in the car, trying to convince himself to go back inside and try one last time, make one last attempt to get his brother to see reason—but then driven away, anyway. 

Being told Sam didn’t want or need him once was enough for any lifetime. He wasn’t about to go back and ask for seconds.

He had spent the intervening two years throwing himself into his job, thinking if he could just work hard enough, he would be able to forget the fight. Forget the pain. Forget Sam entirely. 

And yet, here he was. Inexplicably, impossibly, once again at Sam’s front door, looking for the courage to walk those last 200 yards remaining after the 700 mile drive to get there. The situation was so similar to the dilemma he’d faced two years ago that it was almost like déjà vu. Except this time, he had determined, he was not going to be so stupid as to go to the bar and get drunk before knocking on the door. That really hadn’t worked out so well for him the first time, anyway. And aside from that, he had no intention of knocking on the door to begin with, certain as he was that Sam wouldn’t open it and let him inside if he did.

Still, he could not believe he was about to break in to Sam’s place and drag his brother off on some wild goose chase—that is if Sam would even agree to come with him—but he had been left with no choice. 

_Dean glanced up at the sound of the door opening. His father walked into the room and tossed a duffel bag on the counter of the kitchenette. He looked dirty, disheveled, exhausted. Dean knew better at this point than to ask where he had been or what he had been doing. He'd been getting the same answer for well over three months now. "I'm working on something. I'll let you know more when you need to know it."_

_Actually, the answer itself was fairly standard from John. Dean had grown up getting that answer whenever he asked his father about the hunts he went on without him. But the last few months hadn't been like before. John was even more intense, secretive, disappearing in the middle of the night and not coming back for weeks, days passing between phone calls just to "check in" and let Dean know he was okay. And while they had usually worked most of their hunts together after Sam had left, John had been throwing more and more of the jobs to Dean to handle solo while he worked at, well...whatever it was that had his attention these days._

_Dean suspected it had something to do with the search for the thing that killed his mother, but of course, as per usual with his father, John wasn't talking._

_Dean issued a curt "hello" then returned his attention to the gun he was cleaning. Words were not common between the duo, even under the best of circumstances. Dean knew his father well enough to know that if John didn't want to talk, it was useless to ask. And besides, he trusted his father would let him in on it as soon as he was needed, anyway._

_John sat down across from him and grabbed the gun with one calloused hand, setting it aside. He contemplated Dean for a second and then sighed. "I need you to get Sam," he said._

_Dean's head snapped up and his eyes widened. "What?"_

_John looked irritated, as though he'd just expected Dean to say "Sir! Yessir!" and head off to Stanford without a single question. Which, now that Dean considered it, he probably had. John was an ex-marine, and expected his sons to obey orders just as any good soldier would. That had always been one of the major sources of tension between his father and his brother. Sam didn't much like orders and John didn't much like disobedience._

_"I said I need you to get Sam," John repeated._

_"Yeah, I heard what you said," Dean stated, picking up the gun and grabbing a cloth to wipe it down with. "Are you going to tell me why?"_

_"I don't want to answer questions, Dean! I just want you to do it," John said, slamming a fist down on the table._

_Dean looked away from John, memories of his last visit to Stanford rushing over him one after the other. Sam had made it clear that he wasn't wanted, needed or welcome. His rejection had been unequivocal. He stared at the gun, swallowing the lump that rose, unbidden, in his throat before tossing it and the cloth aside._

_"He won't come with me," he said at last. "He won't even talk to me."_

_"He'll talk to you," John disagreed. "He'll listen to you. Hell, you're the only one he's ever listened to and..." For a brief moment, Dean thought he saw a flash of fear in his father's eyes but it was gone as quickly as it had come. "Well, I suppose if I'm going to ask you to do this, I can at least tell you why."_

_"Be nice," Dean replied._

_"I've figured out how to track the thing that killed your mother," John stated._

_Dean's eyes lit up. "That's awesome!" he exclaimed. "How? Do we know where it's going to be?"_

_John held up a hand. His eyes were lifeless, his expression flat. "That's why I need you to get Sam," he answered._

_"You want him to hunt it with us? There's no way he'll agree to that, even if I can get him to talk to me. He's done with hunting, Dad. For any reason."_

_"I know," John said. "That's not why I want him. I said I know how to track it. I don't know how to kill it. At least, not yet. And I don't want you and Sam anywhere near it. Not until I figure it out."_

_"So then why get Sam?" Dean was not following his father's line of thought. "He's safe at Stanford. The thing doesn't know where he is..." Dean stopped and stared at his father, realization dawning._

_"It knows?" A wave of cold fear washed over him as it always did whenever his brother's safety was in question._

_"You need to get Sam," John repeated. "Get him out of Palo Alto. The thing…I think it’s after him for some reason. He'll need to stay with us until we waste the sonofabitch."_

_Dean jumped up, pacing, his mind racing as the memories from his last visit to Stanford once again rushed to the surface. "You’ll have to go,” he said at last. “You’ll have to talk to him. He’ll understand if you tell him why you want him to come.”_

_John’s face hardened. “I don’t get why you’re fighting me on this, son. If I wanted to do it, I’d be there right now. I need you to take care of this so I can try to figure out what the bastard is doing in Palo Alto.”_

_Dean stopped pacing and fell into the chair, running his fingers through his hair before heaving a sigh and once again lifting his gaze to meet his father’s. “He won't come with me. I went to see him at Stanford. He was pretty adamant that I get the hell out of his life."_

_For a brief moment, John's expression registered surprise. "You went to visit Sam?"_

_Dean nodded. "Two years ago--after Reno," he explained. "And he threw me out."_

_John opened his mouth to say something, but apparently changed his mind. "Well, that's not an option this time," he said. “You have to be the one to do this and you have to convince him to go with you. Tell him whatever you need to tell him.” He stared at his hands and was silent for a moment. "Tell him I'm missing."_

_"Not sure that will work," Dean said, trying to figure out how to get his father to understand how completely Sam had turned his back on the family. The subject of Sam was a volatile one and he knew he had to tread carefully._

_John closed his eyes. When he opened them again, they were once again expressionless. "I’m done debating this. Get your brother away from Stanford," he said in a tone that left no room for argument. "Tell him I'm missing and you need his help. I've got a job lined up to keep the two of you busy while I figure out what the hell this thing wants with him, and how to stop it." John stood up and looked down at Dean before speaking again. "That's an order, Dean.”_

_Dean knew by his father's tone of voice that the conversation was over. “Yes, sir,” he agreed reluctantly._

_John walked over to the duffel bag he had been carrying when he’d come inside and rifled through it. “Jericho. Men have been disappearing off a local highway for the last 20 years. Take a look around, see what you can find. Here,” he said, standing up and turning back around to face Dean. He was holding a wallet in his hand. He held it out and Dean grabbed it. “There’s a piece of paper in there with the name of a hotel where you’ll set up base, credit cards for you, credentials for both you and Sam. Should be everything the two of you will need in there. I’ve loaded up the Impala. She’s ready to go.”_

_"After the job is done?" he asked._

_John's eyes met Dean's. "I'll give you coordinates. Under no circumstances are you to return to Palo Alto until you get the all-clear from me, are we understood?"_

_Dean nodded. "Yes sir," he replied, again walking over to his own duffel bag and shoving the gun he had been cleaning and the wallet his father had handed him inside._

_"Dean?" John asked._

_"Yes?" he mumbled, shouldering the bag and turning around. He checked his pocket for the Impala keys._

_"Don’t stop for anything but gas. I want the two of you out of town tonight."_

Sam had asked him to never bother him again and it was a request that at the time, Dean had intended to honor. He had given Sam his word and he didn’t break his word lightly. 

But his father had given an order. And Sam was in danger. Hell, he didn’t even need the former; he’d have come without it. But that didn’t mean he was looking forward to it. He could think of at least a dozen other things he’d rather be doing right now then sitting in front of his brother’s house contemplating the best way to break in. He drummed his hands on the steering wheel, then heaved a sigh, switched off the ignition and got out of the car. Time was wasting, and if their father had made one thing clear when he’d issued his order, it was that time was not something they had a lot of at the moment. 

He approached the house, assessing which window would be the easiest to get inside. He selected a suitable candidate, jimmied the lock and swung himself through, knocking a vase off of the cabinet below the window as he did so. 

Dean looked around, waiting for the light to come on and his brother to come barreling down the stairs. When it appeared that the noise he’d made getting inside hadn’t been enough to get his brother’s attention, he walked across the room, wondering what to do next. He wandered into the next room and in the next second, Sam was flying across the room at him, bat in hand. Apparently Sam had heard him, after all. Startled, he turned and managed to knock the bat out of Sam’s hands.

His brother’s attack had caught him off balance, but he managed to regain his footing before Sam—who apparently had not recognized him in the darkness of the room—was flying at him again. He managed to get a good punch in which gave him time to regroup and when Sam came at him again the next time he was ready. He fended off a couple of Sam’s punches, then grabbed him and pinned him to the ground.

“Whoa, easy tiger,” he said.

“Dean?” Sam gasped, shock and…something else Dean couldn’t quite read in his eyes. 

Time to put on his game face, then. He laughed and flashed the careless grin he had worked so hard at perfecting.

“You scared the crap out of me,” Sam said.

“That’s because you’re out of practice,” he responded, relaxing his grip. He should not have let his guard down that easily, however because somehow or other he found himself lying on his back on the floor, his and Sam’s positions now reversed. He found he was happy to discover that his brother hadn’t let his hand-to-hand combat skills get too rusty. “Or not…get off me!”

Sam grinned, then grabbed Dean’s hand and pulled him to his feet. This was not the reaction Dean had been expecting but before he could figure out what Sam’s behavior meant, Sam spoke. “What the hell are you doing here?”

During the drive to Palo Alto, Dean had had time to role-play about a thousand different versions of this reunion with Sam. Not one of them, however, had come even close to playing out like this one had. He had expected any one of a dozen reactions from Sam, but none of them included playful wrestling, laughter, or anything that did not include Sam yelling “get the hell out of my house”. Sam’s unexpected behavior aside—there would be plenty of time later to sort through that particular mystery—he had a job to do and he had every intention of following through. His priority right now needed to be getting Sam away from Palo Alto. 

He opened his mouth but found he was unable to give the speech he had carefully rehearsed on the road. Instead, he decided to stall. “I _was_ looking for a beer..."


End file.
